


Revocare Gradum

by Quasar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU: Bodyguard, AU: Different Magic Rules, AU: Psionics, AU: Sex Worker, Action, Angst, Bodyguard Cas, Drama, Drug abuse (not central to plot), Erotic dancers, Indentured Servitude, Interrupted on-screen non-con, M/M, Magical Soulbonds, Psychic Abilities, Reference to past non-con and dub-con, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex Worker Dean, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Quasar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Guardian Angels are an elite group of personal bodyguards with enhanced psi powers.  There are rumors about ancient magic being used to bind each Angel to his assigned charge.  Wealthy CEO John Winchester has spent a lot to buy an Angel's contract to protect his only remaining son from being kidnapped like his older boy was.  But Sam has other ideas about what to do with that contract.  Now Castiel is bound to save a man he's never seen, who disappeared years ago without a trace - and he's going to have to go through Hell to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to update on Mondays.

_Facilis descensus Averni;_  
_Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis._  
_Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras -_  
_Hoc opus, hic labor est!_  


"Easy is the descent into Hell; night and day the dark doors stand open. But to call back the steps and escape to the upper airs - that is a work, that is a toil!"

\- Virgil, The Aeneid

* * *

There was a tentative tap on the half-open door. "Sam? Your Guardian Angel is here to meet you."

Sam's head popped up from his book and he sat up on his bed, feet groping around the floor for wherever his sneakers had escaped to. "Thank you, Jody. Tell my father I'll be down in just a moment."

"There is no need," said a new voice, deep and rough. "Mr. Winchester said I should just come up directly."

Sam's eyes snapped to the door as Jody faded back into the hall and made herself scarce. The man who stepped forward to fill the doorway in her place was... _intense._ He might be a little shorter than Sam, but since turning sixteen Sam was getting used to the idea that a lot of people were shorter than him; this guy was still taller than most. He wore a tailored black suit over a dark blue shirt with no tie, and he moved like a jungle cat on the prowl. His face was pale and clean-shaven, his hair slightly ruffled, but the most noticeable feature was the intent gaze burning in his sharp blue eyes.

He was looking at Sam. Directly at him, not flicking looks up and down his body, his clothes, or his room. Just looking straight into Sam's eyes as he shouldered through the bedroom door. "I'm Castiel. I will be your Guardian Angel."

Sam swallowed hard. "Uh, right. Yeah. I've, uh, I've been reading up on your organization. It's mostly rumor and hearsay, but you guys have a hell of a reputation. Best bodyguards anywhere, everybody says." He started to extend a hand, then lowered it uncertainly.

"Our loyalty is unwavering," said Castiel, with an equally unwavering stare that didn't take note of the offered handshake. It was starting to unnerve Sam.

"Right, yeah, so I read." He wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans. "But, uh, that loyalty bond thing - how is that enforced?"

"You and I will be bonded tomorrow. The ceremony is short and will be painless for you."

 _For me?_ Sam wondered, but he tried to keep the conversation going where he needed it. "Ceremony. You mean ritual?"

Castiel's head dipped briefly, but his gaze didn't. "Zachariah, a senior representative of my organization, will perform the bonding."

Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah, so this is... magic, right? I couldn't find a lot of information on it. Most people still think magic is a mix of superstition and stage flourishes. Well, and of course psionics, since psi has been scientifically confirmed, but ritual magic is a lot harder to fit into research studies."

Castiel tipped his head slightly to one side, as if Sam were an interesting exhibit he needed to study. "I would not expect a Winchester to share that attitude. Is your family's wealth not founded on the sale of simple spell recipes for every household?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, you could say my grandfather sort of took the Men of Letters into global commerce. But you know, just because people buy the stuff doesn't mean they really believe in it. Listen, um, why don't you... come in and sit down, if you like?" He gestured to his desk chair, the couch over by the window, even the doors leading to the balcony and the deck chairs overlooking the grounds. Sometimes there were so many choices even Sam had trouble deciding where to sit.

"I am comfortable, thank you." But Castiel took this as an invitation to move further into the room and study everything minutely, section by section. It wasn't all about security either; after a sharp look around the balcony, maybe gauging potential lines of fire or ways to climb up or down, he spent a long time on the bookcases which were not a likely threat to Sam's safety but did reveal a lot about his interests. Or at least, what he used to be interested in, since many of those books were from a few years ago. These days Sam spent more time on his computer, haunting bulletin boards and chat rooms.

"So... you know about my family's history?" Sam prodded, still trying to find a way to get what he needed from this guy. Maybe a more roundabout way.

"Background information is necessary for the job." Castiel kept perusing the rows of books.

"You know about my brother, then." It wasn't a question.

At that, Castiel's eyes returned to Sam's face. "Of course. Your brother's abduction was a primary motivation for your father to purchase my contract. He does not want the same thing to happen to you."

"I know that!" Sam bit his lip as he heard his voice rising, and tried to bring it back under control. "I just... sometimes I wish Dad had spent more time figuring out how to get Dean back, instead of immediately switching all his attention straight to me."

"Your brother is presumed dead, is he not?" Castiel's head was tilting again.

"That's not -" Sam caught himself. "It's not certain. It's only been two and a half years. He could still be out there." 

Two and a half years ago was Sam's fourteenth birthday, when he had a fight with Dean, leading to his brother storming out and telling their regular security guys to leave him alone. Leading to Dean disappearing forever.

But Sam was determined it wouldn't be forever. And he had a plan to make that come true, maybe.

And talking about it too much would probably ruin everything. So he sighed unhappily and ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. Castiel did not press him or demand to know exactly what Sam had been implying, but instead gave him the space to calm down on his own time. Sam wasn't really used to that, but it did help him focus. He made himself chuckle self-deprecatingly. "But I guess you know all this stuff already. Dad sent you up here so I could learn more about you, right?" He retreated to perch on the edge of his bed. "So, doesn't it bother you?"

"For you to learn about me? No. We will be spending a great deal of time together in the future, Sam." Castiel had returned to examining the contents of the room, and he was now peering at all the components of Sam's computer system, although he didn't touch anything.

"Not that. I mean, the whole contract thing. My dad _bought_ you for - for me. It's like slavery or something."

"Technically, it is a modern form of indentured servitude. My contract with you, through your father, will be of limited duration, though renewable. My obligation to the Guardian Angels is lifelong. I received something of great value when I joined the organization."

"Valuable enough for you to sign away the whole rest of your life?"

Castiel dipped his head briefly, although it was hard to tell if he was saying Yes, it was worth it, or just acknowledging Sam's point.

"I mean, you must have been pretty young when you joined, right?" Sam guessed the guy was in his early twenties, maybe a little older than Dean would be now. And it must have taken a few years for the organization to train him up and do... whatever they did that made the Guardian Angels into the unswerving, unstoppable force that rumor made them out to be.

"The man I was then considered the compensation to be worth the price."

Sam stilled. "The man you were?"

"I am a warrior now. A protector."

"So you have a whole new name. Just one name? No family?"

Castiel turned to face Sam. "As of tomorrow, my family name will be Winchester."

"Right. The bonding." Sam gulped. "How does that work, exactly?"

Castiel raised his brows. "You should have been informed about this."

"Yeah, sure, they told me what I'm supposed to do, but not really how it works. We had to send away a blood sample so your organization could test me, right?" The blood draw hadn't been a big deal, because everybody in the family had a pint drawn every few months to be kept in storage, so that in the event of an accident they could get their own blood transfused instead of a stranger's. Magical stasis casks kept the blood usable much longer than conventional methods - that was one of the Men of Letters trade secrets, sold at a premium to a limited customer base, unlike the more widely-known household spells linked to the Winchester name and fortune. Sam had learned a lot by chatting with the lab attendant who took his blood.

"The blood sample confirmed that you and I are compatible, so tomorrow's bonding will have a greater chance of success."

"So does that go by, like, blood type, or is it family genetics, or what?"

Castiel frowned as if he hadn't considered this before. "The compatibility is generally an individual matter, although there are components which might be familial. Psionic resonance is one of the most important. I understand that many members of your family do have some psi powers?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess. My grandfather's some kind of clairvoyant. Dad's got a limited danger sense - it kept him out of a couple car accidents and even a plane crash once. Dean..." He swallowed. "Dean was always really good at reading people. We wondered if he might be a mind-reader, but Dad didn't want a lot of testing until he was older."

"All perceptive abilities. Interesting."

"Well, there was a cousin on Mom's side who had some kind of kinetic thing, but I'm not sure if he was actually a blood relation to me. I don't think Mom had any special abilities. I didn't really get to know her before, um..." Sam pushed a hand through his hair nervously, not liking to talk about his mother's death. Castiel must know that whole story, anyway.

"And what about you?"

"Oh! Well. It's not confirmed yet, but a couple times I've had these... dreams? They might be precognitive."

Castiel blinked. "That's a powerful skill."

"Maybe, except so far I haven't been able to change anything I dreamed about." One of the earliest dreams had been about Dean walking away from Sam's party, but he hadn't known until too late that it was showing him what might be the last time he would ever see his brother. "I only figure it out after it's too late to make a difference."

"You will likely find that the binding ritual will cause your ability to strengthen and stabilize. You may have more control over it, especially when I am nearby."

Sam looked up sharply. "That wasn't in the information brochures."

"No, it is a less publicized effect of the Guardian bond. I will also acquire some ability, in addition to the better-known effects. It will likely be something that is complementary to yours in some way."

"What's complementary to precognitive dreams?"

Castiel shook his head slowly. "I can't predict with precision. Frequently the corollary of a perceptive ability is a kinetic one, but I've never heard of a psionic skill to manipulate future events. Perhaps I will merely be able to read your dreams or help you focus them more clearly."

"Or you might be the key to being able to change the stuff I dream about."

Castiel nodded. "Perhaps. Any form of precognition will make it easier for me to keep you safe."

Sam chewed on his lip. That did sound like a hell of a side benefit, for Sam as well as for Castiel. It made him wonder if he was really doing the right thing. "What happens if you get bound to someone you're not really compatible with? If the test was a mistake, or whatever?"

"The most common result is simply a weaker partnership. Normally, I would be able to sense my charge's location and something about your mood or whether you are in any distress. If we are less compatible, that link will be more tenuous."

"Oh." Sam winced. If Castiel couldn't locate his 'charge' that would make everything a lot tougher.

"In cases of severe incompatibility, of course, the likely result is death of the Guardian due to backlash when the bonding ritual fails. But this is why we have the pre-testing procedures in place."

"Wait, what?" Sam looked up sharply.

"That will not happen, Sam. And even if it did, it would cause no harm to you. The organization would send you a new Guardian - after further testing to determine what went wrong, of course."

"Of course. Right." Sam was feeling his determination start to wither a little bit. "So, um, when is this ceremony supposed to be?"

"Zachariah will be here at nine tomorrow morning. For today, your father suggested that I could get to know the grounds and the staff here. Of course, I have studied the layout of all your family's properties, as well as the personnel records. But it isn't the same as seeing them in person."

"Right. Yes, of course."

"Would you like to show me around yourself, or should I find Ms. Mills again?"

Sam forced a smile to his face and stood up. "No, I'll do it. Just, uh, give me a second to find my shoes."

Sam went through the rest of the day on autopilot. The only interesting part of the tour was the garage, when Bobby decided to test Castiel's abilities by whanging a tire iron at his head. Castiel caught it and diverted it easily, then put Bobby on the ground within seconds, unharmed but safely restrained. After Sam explained that Bobby tried something with most of the new security staff, Castiel let him up with only a dark glare. At least they seemed to respect each other, even if they weren't going to be friends.

When Sam finally escaped to bed that night, he lay awake for hours counting over the pros and cons of the plan he had concocted. Eventually he fell into uneasy sleep, and he dreamed of the silhouette of Dean's shoulders, tense and unhappy, moving away from him into darkness. He woke more determined than ever: whatever it took, that was not going to be the last time Sam Winchester saw his brother.

* * *

John Winchester did not look like a wealthy CEO; he looked more like a thug. Granted, he wasn't dressed for business, nor had he felt a need to shave today. Doubtless he could make a good impression when he had a reason, otherwise he would have squandered his fortune instead of increasing it. But Castiel found himself orienting as if Winchester was the primary threat in the room, which was surely not correct.

He knew the basics of the family history: Henry Winchester had been a member of an elite magical society, until he published a straightforward book that explained how to cast spells almost as if they were recipes in a cookbook. Although he kept to the simplest magic and didn't reveal the secrets of his society, the first book grew into a series and then a burgeoning international business of selling magical recipes and ingredients to regular people. There was also a smaller, but also very lucrative, business of designing and casting stronger customized spells for corporations and wealthy individuals at considerably higher rates. Supposedly, even Michael had made use of the Winchester services on occasion to improve some of the Guardian Angels' methods.

John Winchester had rebelled in his early adulthood against Henry's strict manners and careful fortune-building. He'd joined the military, but after he was injured in combat Henry pulled strings to keep him stateside for the rest of the conflict. John had tried to cut ties and worked for a while as an auto mechanic, marrying a girl from a family of questionable reputation. Some of the Campbell family members were high on Castiel's list of possible threats to Sam. 

By the time his first son was born, John had reconciled with his father. A few years later, Henry had surprised everyone by splitting the company in two; he continued to work on the sophisticated rituals while John took over the high-volume sales business. John was able to grow the company, after a few bobbles for reorganization and a long slump when Mary Winchester died in a tragic fire. That fire had been ruled accidental, although Castiel still had suspicions after reading the file. Sam had been three years old at the time, and likely had few memories of his mother.

Dean, the older son, had been prepared to follow in his father's footsteps despite occasional teenage flares of resentment. But then at age eighteen Dean disappeared after an argument with his brother. The FBI questioned whether the boy had left voluntarily, but John and Sam had both insisted Dean must have been kidnapped. But there was never a ransom demand, and none of the investigative leads panned out, and after six months John had quietly pulled his own private investigators from the case.

Sam had stepped up to become the loyal son and the business heir, but from their conversation yesterday Castiel knew that Sam still believed his brother had been abducted, and he was angry at John for giving up. Sam was more of an intellectual than his father and probably kept a lot of opinions to himself. The tension between them might become a problem in future, but familial relations were not Castiel's concern unless they began to pose a threat. Castiel was satisfied that he would be compatible with Sam, and that was what mattered for today.

No sign of a rebellious attitude showed on Sam's face now as he entered the lab and swung his backpack to the floor. The lab space chosen for the ceremony had been designed for both chemistry and magic, so there were wards incorporated into the safety doors and the ventilation grilles, and the layout accommodated feng shui as well as ergonomics. It was an acceptable space for the binding and Castiel felt himself relax a little.

He tensed again when Zachariah arrived. Something about the man grated on the nerves and Castiel wasn't surprised that his only contract as a bodyguard had been dissolved after two years. After that, Zachariah had schmoozed his way into upper management of the Guardian Angels, and seemed to think he was superior because of it. He had a suit with an Italian sheen to the fabric, tailored in a way that didn't permit carrying weapons.

"Hey there, champ!" Zachariah gave Castiel a hearty slap on the back; he braced against it and refused to shift his weight. "Ready for the big day? Mr. Winchester, so good to meet you at last. You picked yourself a good one here, I gotta tell you - Castiel was at the top of his class in training."

The Guardian Angels all had individual, tailored training programs. They might work in groups for some things, but they didn't start and end their training together so there was no such thing as a class ranking. Castiel watched sourly as Zachariah lied amiably to their customer while ignoring Sam, who was the true client even if he didn't sign the checks.

And then Zachariah did look at Sam, assuring him "You'll be in good hands," and Castiel had to stifle the urge to shoulder between them, to push the slimy source of corruption away from his assigned charge. Castiel wasn't even bound yet, and he wasn't certain he'd be able to beat Zachariah in direct conflict. And he wasn't supposed to be in conflict with one of his superiors, anyway.

Sam nodded and mumbled and cleared his throat and looked like he wanted to get far away from Zachariah as soon as possible. But he had to sit and be still while Zachariah pressed a needle into his elbow and drew blood for the bonding. Castiel surrendered a vial of his own blood and then a lock of hair as well.

Sam pulled back as Zachariah approached him with the scissors. "Oh! I already trimmed some this morning." He placed a piece of paper on the table and unfolded it to reveal a curl of silky hair. "Sorry, my, um, my ears are really ticklish and I just got nervous thinking about it. That's why I always hate getting a haircut." He brushed at his shaggy hair and grimaced an apologetic smile at his father, whose eyes were narrowed in exasperation but not anger.

As he stepped away from the table, Sam's sleeve brushed one of the blood vials to the floor. He jumped, and apologized, but the thing was plastic so it hadn't broken. Castiel bent to pick it up, but Sam got there first, aiming the nervous smile at him now, and rose to place the vial back on the table. "Sorry," he said again. "Guess I'm just... yeah. Nervous." He glanced around at Castiel, frowned, and took a step back from the table to watch the spell in progress.

Zachariah set out a timer while he added some herbs and oils to his copper bowl, explaining in a practiced patter how all the components worked together. John Winchester possibly understood more of the theory than Zachariah did, or at least he had been exposed to the principals of spell design from an early age. But he merely watched silently with the rest of them as everything was brought together. Zachariah twisted together the locks of hair with a few muttered words of Aramaic, then dropped them into the bowl.

Less than a minute remained on the timer, showing exactly when the moon was going to be new, when it was most closely aligned with the sun. In fact, there was a solar eclipse occurring somewhere in the southern Atlantic, which should make this spell exceptionally strong. Winchester had discussed the possibility of traveling to the eclipse path, but the spell consultants in both companies had thought it unnecessary. Timing was more important than location.

As the minute counted down, Zachariah struck a match and set alight a single cedar chip. With ten seconds left, he dropped the burning cedar into the bowl and nodded to Castiel. They traded off incantations as Zachariah uncapped the two vials of blood: Castiel spoke in Aramaic, then Zachariah in Greek, Castiel in Hebrew, Zachariah in Latin, and finally both of them said the final words in English as the blood was poured into the bowl. Multiple languages from multiple eras of history helped a spell to persist through time and changes of situation. At the climax of the incantation, Zachariah clapped his hands. The flames leapt up high above the bowl's rim, and then it felt as if the fire was burning inside of Castiel instead.

He stiffened, waiting for the momentary discomfort to pass, but it got worse and he hunched slightly. A raspy groan was pulled from him as his vision tunneled in. It wasn't supposed to be this bad; he knew exactly how the ritual was supposed to go, and it wasn't supposed to be like this. It felt as if his heart were being pulled out of him through a long thin straw and piped away to a distant place. He gripped the edge of the table and panted for a long minute. Winchester said something, sounding worried, and Zachariah replied with false reassurance.

The fire inside Castiel banked, and the pain eased slowly. He straightened with difficulty. Zachariah and John Winchester were frowning at him. Sam was watching with fists and jaw clenched, his eyes wide and his lips twitching. Castiel felt an urgent need to be somewhere else.

"Well, you took that a little hard, didn't you, champ?" Zachariah laughed. "All right there?"

Castiel nodded and answered the question he hadn't asked. "The ritual worked. It was merely... more intense than I anticipated." He saw Sam's tension ease a little, but not entirely. "I would like to speak to Sam alone, please."

"Sure, no problem! You wrap up that bonding with a little personal contact, we know the drill. Mr. Winchester, if you have a moment, I have an offer for you -" Zachariah drew Sam's father away.

As soon as they were alone, Castiel turned a blazing glare on Sam and hissed, "Whom have you bound me to?" 

"My brother." Sam swallowed. "He's alive."

"Did you know that when you switched the blood vials? How did you even get your brother's blood?"

"It was in storage. Magical storage, so it's still fresh. Same with the hair."

"Do you realize what would have happened if I had been bound to a dead man? You could have killed me!" Castiel shifted his weight, anxious to be out of this room, off this estate, heading to the side of his bound charge.

"I knew he was alive. I _knew_ it. And so did my father." Sam reached for the backpack he had propped by the door and pulled out a sheaf of printouts. "You know Dad had private investigators looking for Dean after he disappeared? Well, they found him. After Dad heard their report, he nixed a rescue attempt and paid off the investigators to say nothing."

Castiel frowned. "Why?"

"Because Dean was working for the guys who took him. Bad guys. I don't know if they brainwashed him, or if it's Stockholm syndrome or he's like Patty Hearst or what. But Dad just decided that meant Dean wanted to be there, so he washed his hands of him."

Castiel took the printout and started flipping through the reports. There was a lot of information, and it would take a while to figure out what was important. "How long have you known this?"

"I kinda guessed at the time, but when I tried to ask Dad got nasty about it so I just dropped it." Sam scowled at the floor. "I gave up on Dean, same as Dad did, and the FBI, and all those idiot PIs. But I couldn't just forget about him, and finally I realized giving up was wrong. So I looked into it some more, and a couple months ago I got hold of those reports. Castiel, I'm telling you, there is no way Dean went with those people voluntarily. There is no way he _wanted_ to be doing that stuff. Whatever they did to him - they forced him into it, somehow. And you have to get him out of there."

"Yes," said Castiel slowly. "Or at least I must make certain he's safe where he is. I have no choice, Sam - I have to do what's best for Dean."

"Just get him out. If he wants to come back here, that's great. If he doesn't want to see Dad ever again, I'll keep it quiet. Or, or if he doesn't even want to see _me_ that's fine, but I just gotta know he's okay. I can send money - I already got some cash ready for you. And I can get you a car."

"How long have you been planning this?"

"Ever since my Dad told me he'd be buying an Angel contract. Ever since I looked up what you guys do. You're the best chance Dean has. Castiel, if I'm right about what happened to him, that means my brother is in Hell. And Dad just left him there. We gotta get him back. Or at least get him out."

"Your father will find out what you did, as soon as he realizes I'm gone."

"Um, yeah. I was kind of expecting you to tell everyone as soon as the spell finished. Why didn't you?"

Castiel sighed. He wasn't entirely certain of that himself, but it was partly because of his distrust of Zachariah. "We would have been caught up in arguments and contract disputes, with your father wanting his money back and Zachariah insisting the company delivered what we were paid for. And all of that would have caused delay. You don't know what you did to me with that bonding spell, Sam - I _have_ to be where Dean is, as soon as humanly possible."

"Well, it's probably not the same place as in those PI reports from two years ago," Sam admitted. "But I bet it's still the same people. If, if you'll let me, if you'll trust me, I can help you find him. I can look stuff up on the computer, or check records for you, or just run interference while you're looking for Dean."

"I don't need an investigation to find Dean. I could walk to where he is without consulting a map. Although I would prefer to drive, since I believe it's a considerable distance. Somewhere south and east of here, hundreds of miles or more."

Sam let out a relieved whuff of breath. "Oh, good, I was hoping the bond would work like it's supposed to. What about, um, what you said about psi abilities? Do you have anything new?"

"I can't really tell yet. Perhaps when I get closer to Dean." Castiel looked at the backpack Sam had set near the door. "Is that for me?"

"Right!" Sam pulled it open. "I wasn't sure what you'd need but here's some cash, maps, a cell phone, keys to one of the cars in the garage - not one of the fancy ones, just a plain sedan. I couldn't get any weapons but I guess you've got your own?"

"Yes."

"Um, and there's a ball cap and sunglasses and a hoodie in case you need a disguise. And trail mix, and some water? I really didn't know what to put in there."

"Good enough for a start." Castiel zipped the backpack closed and swung it to his shoulder. "The cash will get me whatever else I need. How long can you keep the missing car a secret?"

"If I get Bobby to say it's in for repairs... a few days, maybe? I mean, they'll know _you're_ missing so they'll have to know you're getting around somehow."

"I will change license plates, then." Castiel frowned at Sam. "I do not entirely trust you, not after what you've done today. But I will keep in contact. We might need some help at some point."

"I'll be ready. If I'm in the doghouse, if Dad won't let me do anything, I can still probably get Bobby to help out. He really cares about Dean and he's not my Dad's biggest fan either."

"Expect a call this afternoon or evening. Now, help me get to the garage without anyone noticing something is up, and then make yourself scarce for as long as you can."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean woke when something small hit him in the shoulder. He yelled, flipped to his other side, scooped the thing from the floor where it had fallen, and threw it back toward its source.

It was only a crumpled ball of paper. Ruby dodged, laughing.

"Ruby! Fuck!" Dean groaned and rubbed at his eyes, head throbbing in time with the pounding of his heart as he slouched back against the cushions. He'd been curled on the couch in the club's office, because he hated to sleep in the 'guest rooms' upstairs, even if the beds were stripped for the damn red satin or whatever to be cleaned. Sometimes he went down the stairs instead and slept in the laundry room for a few hours, or even on a pallet in the corner of the interrogation room - but not when the room had been recently used. Not when he could still hear the screams and taste the bile in his throat.

Last night was a hostile interrogation. Some old geezer whose secrets were all tangled up in decades of complicated history and took forever to tease out. No wonder Dean had a headache and couldn't quite remember what he'd done after Alastair let him leave the room. He groped behind the couch cushions, still cursing under his breath, until he found one of the half-full water bottles he kept stashed there, and took a big gulp.

So apparently he'd ended up on the couch, which was exposed but usually quiet. And it had actual windows so there was sunshine in the morning, which he didn't get much of. Normally, no one came into the office until afternoon so it was relatively quiet. Plus, Alastair had said he wasn't going to be in today so Dean was supposed to have a chance to take it easy.

He squinted at the angle of the light on the floor. "Shit, what time is it? I'm not supposed to be anywhere until after noon, you bitch!" He gulped at the water again. It wasn't laced with anything, so far as he could remember or taste.

"No such luck, pretty boy. Lilith wants you."

"Aw, shit." Dean dropped his head into his hands. Lilith wasn't as bad as Alastair. She loved to order people around in her little-girl voice and she could be really really vicious if he disobeyed, but usually the things she wanted him to do weren't as bad. And she didn't give him whatever it was that made his brain fuzzy like Alastair did. "What's she want?" he mumbled.

"New hire needs dance training, she wants you in the practice room."

"Huh?" Dancing wasn't so bad. It was the least horrible thing Dean did at the club, and if they were letting him dance it meant they weren't bringing him to help with interrogations, either friendly or hostile. But he'd rather dance for a crowd of drunk bikers than for Lilith's sharp gaze. Every mistake the new person made would be blamed on Dean. "I need to be more awake for that," he groaned.

"Need a pick-me-up?" Ruby darted a hand into the pocket of her cute little jacket.

"I'm not taking anything from you, bitch. That Molly you gave me the other night was fucked up." He'd barely gotten to sleep in the morning (it took a long time to get clean after a night of friendly interrogation) when he woke up screaming with fire burning through his veins. And after that his buzz was totally gone and he couldn't sleep at all. He'd been so bored he ended up polishing glasses for Crowley, who wouldn't even give him any alcohol until the club actually opened. But Crowley was okay, mostly, if you didn't get on his bad side.

"The Molly was quality shit, you asshole. And you took it hours before anything happened. You must have been mixing pills in your sleep."

"Bitch," he grumbled, and pulled a bottle out of his jeans. He stirred a finger through the assortment of pills, sporadically checked and censored by Alastair or Lilith to make sure he wasn't going to do anything stupid. Or stupider than his normal routine, anyway. He only had a couple of speed pills, small ones that wouldn't have much kick anyway, and he wasn't going to waste them on this. But he needed something, so he teased out a couple of caffeine pills and swallowed those with another gulp of water.

He probably needed food, but a real meal would take too long, make him too heavy to dance, and make Lilith angry. And he wasn't actually hungry anyway. He was almost never hungry.

"What's with the new girl, anyway?" he asked. "We got a full team already, don't we?"

"It's a new guy, so get your shit together and get dressed. I gotta change too. Ten minutes - don't be late, asshole!" Ruby retreated.

Dean sponged himself off in the corner bathroom, ate a couple of stale saltines from a packet stashed behind the rolls of toilet paper in the closet, and detoured to the bar to bum a glass of orange juice and a few peanuts from Crowley. Thus fortified, he headed for the dressing room.

The new guy was there. He was just about Dean's height, maybe a couple of years older, and smoldering with intensity. He'd look good on stage, his golden tan under tousled dark hair contrasting with Dean's pale skin and short peroxide spikes. But right now he was pointing that blue-eyed intensity straight at Dean, and it made his skin prickle.

"Uh, hey," said Dean, pulling a muscle shirt and a pair of shorts from his locker, which didn't actually lock. He was not allowed to have anything private, but after one of his successful interrogations Alastair had given him a broken padlock. He always pretended to dial a combination before yanking it open if anyone was watching. "So you're the new guy, huh?"

"Hello. I'm James."

"De... I'm Cain." For some reason he didn't understand, Dean had never really internalized the name Alastair gave him, even though he learned to answer to it. Sometimes he figured he still thought of himself as 'Dean' because he was trying to cling to his real self. Other times he thought it was stupid to hold on, since a different name might make it easier to get past some of the things he had done here, things that Alastair coerced or threatened or outright forced him to do. But the truth was that Dean was never going to leave this place anyway, so why pretend he would ever have a chance to get over anything? This was who he was now, and he might as well own it.

He realized belatedly that James was holding out a hand, waiting for him to shake it. He blinked and extended his own. The moment their palms met, Dean staggered. The rush was almost like that fire that blazed through him a few days ago from the bad pills, but now it was more tingling than burning.

James caught him by the elbow and braced him. His mouth moved and Dean could see the words "Are you okay?" but what he heard was _I'm here to help you._ He pulled free and slumped against the lockers, gasping for air.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," he snapped. He felt... actually he felt okay, although his heart was racing. His head was clear, more clear than it had been in a long time. The lights seemed brighter - which wasn't really an advantage since he didn't care to see all the grime in the corners - and sounds were sharper.

He eyed James, wondering if what he had picked up was real. Normally, Dean could only pull from someone if he was really concentrating. Even with skin contact it took a lot of effort, especially in the hostile interrogations when the person was trying to keep their secrets. Under Alastair's guidance, Dean had learned how to apply pleasure or pain until the subject was nearly out of their heads, then grab tight and ask a leading question and focus on the pull.

This hadn't been like that. James' voice just floated into Dean's head like it belonged there. Dean did imagine voices sometimes - not like a crazy person, since he knew he wasn't actually hearing them, just thinking about what certain people might say. When he was first taken he'd imagined encouragement from Sam, from Dad, even from Mom and Grandpa, telling him _Hold on, you can get through this, someone will come to get you out soon._ But when he realized no one was coming, the voices spoke less often. Sometimes Sam said, _No, you're the selfish one! You don't want me to have a life of my own!_ or Dad said, _I always knew you weren't right for this job._ Mom's voice had pretty much faded into the mists of memory. The only encouragement anymore came from Dean's own voice, mumbling "Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together," or just "Focus! Get it right!" But Dean criticized himself, too, and sometimes his own voice started to sound a lot like Alastair's.

 _That's the way Alastair wants it,_ Dean thought to himself now. _He wants to keep you under his control. Don't let him._ He blinked. Usually it was hard to think clearly about Alastair - it could be hard to remember exactly what the guy said or did or even looked like, just a terrifying tall figure who spoke in a creepy sing-song, pressuring Dean by one method or another. But right now that fuzz seemed to be gone and Dean had the certain knowledge of how Alastair had been manipulating him, even brainwashing him.

"Are you okay?" James asked again, definitely out loud this time, and Dean snapped back to the present.

"Yeah, sorry," he said. "I just, uh, I had a long night, you know?" He tried to pull up a cocky grin that would make it seem like last night was long because it was _fun_. Which it hadn't been. Dean could feel the memories of the old geezer crowding into his thoughts, clearer than ever, but he pushed them aside. He didn't want to think about that crap right now. "I gotta get changed," he said instead, and quickly pulled down his jeans.

Normally, that would make another guy turn away, but James just kept watching Dean - his face, not his body - while he stripped down and pulled on the looser practice clothes. 

"You should be changing too, man. You got anything you can dance in?"

"Oh. Yes, I suppose." James unzipped a backpack and pulled out some sweats. "Is there a locker I could use?"

"Sure. Any of those up there. Have to bring your own lock, though, sorry."

"That's okay, I don't have anything really valuable. I'll bring a lock next time." James finally did turn away, putting his backpack in a locker and starting his own clothes swap.

Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, noting lots of smooth skin - the guy would only need to shave his shins, not his thighs or chest - over lean muscles. Muscles for use more than show, but it wouldn't be hard to bulk him up if Lilith wanted. He was better fed than some of the strays they got in occasionally, including Dean. He had a few scars, but nothing so fresh and red it would need makeup like Dean sometimes did.

He wondered if James was really here voluntarily. Some of the dancers were, so were most of the low-level employees like bouncers and servers and kitchen staff, and even a few of the specialists - they had dominatrices and bondage experts and registered, legal prostitutes. Dean had heard some of the hookers saying this was a decent place to work, safer than the streets with a reasonable cut of the money. But most of the staff had some kind of coercion applied, to keep them from talking to the cops if nothing else. Even those who started working here by choice were never exactly free.

Dean, of course, was not paid at all, and was not here voluntarily. Alastair would say it was his choice, of course. He would say that Dean had chosen the dance floor and the guest rooms and the interrogations, and that meant he owned what he did there. Even if the alternative was being tied up for months inside a dark closet, with no one to hear him scream when Alastair came to visit. Even if the alternative was knowing his brother would be the next one taken, if Dean continued to hold out.

Dean hadn't thought about those alternatives in a long time. His hands were shaking as he reached into his locker and pulled out his athletic cup, slipping it into his thong under the shorts.

"Do I need one of those?" James asked.

Dean jumped, startled at the sound of a voice. He was totally getting lost in his thoughts today, and that was going to throw him off when he started dancing, and Lilith would be pissed. "Nah, probably not," he managed in a light tone. "It's just, um, if we're stripping - if Lilith wants us to practice stripping down to thongs, you know." For those times when they weren't stripping all the way, the audience (including Lilith) liked to imagine an appealing package under the shiny cloth. Once upon a time Dean would have thought he was a pretty appealing guy and could rise to any occasion. But these days he mostly needed a blue pill for friendly interrogations, and a cup or a codpiece for dancing, at least until the audience got him fired up. "Don't worry about it for now, you'll be fine," Dean assured him.

He wasn't fine. James was a pretty athletic guy, strong and flexible with great balance and reflexes. But he had absolutely no sense of rhythm and couldn't find a beat even when it was right there on the bass line. He somehow managed to be flexible and stiff at the same time. He had trouble expressing sensuality with his body, even though it seemed to blaze from his eyes and even his rumpled bed-head hair. 

Dean frowned as he watched Meg rub her ass back against the guy's crotch, trying to show him how to do a basic bump-and-grind. He wondered if the guy could be a virgin to sex as well as dancing, but it didn't seem possible. James looked a few years older than Dean himself, and he was a good-looking guy, so he had to have sampled what was out there. But somehow Meg's attention made him look more uncomfortable than interested.

Once James' hips finally loosened up a little and he seemed to have the basic idea, it was time to show him some other moves. Then it was Dean's turn to step forward, and they mirrored each other or did show-and-copy on some easy stuff, then a few harder moves and combination with jumps and bends. James copied Dean easily enough, but with a mechanical precision rather than the snap and burn that would be needed in front of an audience. Maybe it was just because this was a practice room - the audience lent an energy that could be hard to imagine if you hadn't felt it before.

But then Lilith sat in a chair in front of the mirror and told James to aim the dance moves at her, instead of at Dean. And there was nothing there, no smolder. Lilith snapped her fingers at Ruby to turn on some music, and then it was worse because James could do the moves but he couldn't set them to a beat.

"Where's the warmth, where's the fire?" Lilith demanded in a piping tone like a child. "Come on, you look like a fish flopping around on the pier!"

Dean winced. He was used to Lilith's barbed tongue, but it could be hard on the newbies. He remembered when it was hard for him, when he trembled at every insult, thinking he'd be sent back to Alastair's dark closet again. But whatever coercion had been applied to get James here, it hadn't involved weeks of darkness. He just nodded solemnly at Lilith and tried again.

Lilith threw up her hands. "This is hopeless."

James looked at her with a frown line between his brows. "I know you really need me here. I'll do better."

Lilith sighed and sank back to her chair, waving a hand in languid annoyance. "Fine. Again."

Dean blinked. Insults, but no threats to fire James or relegate him to dishwashing duty? That had to mean that Lilith (and probably Alastair) wanted James here for some reason other than his dancing skills, but Dean couldn't guess what that might be. Meg and Ruby kept exchanging glances, probably thinking the same as Dean. Nobody questioned Lilith's decision to add a new guy to the dance team.

The thing was, they _didn't_ really need another guy. Sure, Ladies' Night could get raucous and intense, but that was only once a week. Most nights about three quarters of their clientele were men, and most of the men were straight. There were plenty of female dancers for those guys to throw money at. Dean, and Brady on nights when Dean was otherwise occupied, would normally be the only man on the stage. There might be one focused solo dance to please the straight women and gay men, but mostly the guy's job was emceeing, supporting and appreciating the women. It stoked the straight men because Dean - or Brady - could lay hands on the female dancers, and the customers weren't allowed. That little edge of jealous frustration got more men to spring for lap dances or extra drinks, or even some time in the upstairs rooms where they _could_ touch. But too much competition - too many men on stage, no matter how hot - would be a turn-off for most of their customer base.

So why hire a new guy, especially if he was less than perfect as a dancer? Dean didn't know, and from their confusion neither did Meg or Ruby. He just hoped it didn't mean they were going to move him away from dancing to do more work in the guest rooms, or in some of Alastair's other dealings. Was James supposed to be his replacement on the stage? Dean tried to help the guy learn anyway, since nobody was going to be happy if Lilith got pissed.

Finally they switched to having the women dance and the men just supporting them, Ruby partnered with Dean and Meg with James. That actually worked pretty well. Dean could walk James through a routine once, and then the guy was ready to do it at full speed, and he never dropped his partner. So long as Dean and the ladies were hitting the beats, James would too. And if he wasn't exactly giving off vibes to make Meg look more desirable to the audience, well, she could carry that off pretty well by herself. He was strong on the lifts, and Meg joked about doing a pole dance with him playing the part of the pole. But if James needed to do anything besides standing stiffly, they had to do it in double pairs - if he could see and copy what Dean was doing, he would be good.

"Switch partners," Lilith declared. "Meg, we'll get your hair dyed again, and a touch-up for Cain."

Dean shrugged. Meg sighed but didn't quite dare roll her eyes at Lilith. Ruby also looked sort of doubtful, like she'd rather have the length of a stage between her and James instead of his hands on her hips.

"Pair up by coloring," Lilith went on. "Two pale blonds on one side - we'll put you in white, something filmy and flowy. And dark hair and olive skin on the other side. Black leather - no, red. Demons versus angels."

Dean as an angel and James as a demon? That seemed exactly wrong, especially when Dean had just been guessing James might be a virgin or near virgin and he knew he himself was thoroughly debauched, rotten to the core. But it was just an act, and he knew better than to get in the way of Lilith's creative vision. Except, "Is that really going to work if we're just mirroring moves?"

"That's the whole point, idiot!" Lilith hissed. "Show people there really is no difference between pure and impure except on the surfaces. Or... we could do a mirrored battle." She tapped one enameled fingernail against her teeth, considering, then started talking them through a yin/yang fight. James turned out to be really good at that, even making some of the moves ahead of Dean. It looked like he was starting to get the hang of this thing.

They'd been practicing for hours and Dean's legs were starting to tremble when Lilith finally called it. "Enough for now," she announced. "We'll have to rustle up some costumes for you, and find the right music. James, you're not going on the stage yet, not until you look less like a drunken elephant. Brady will cover tonight."

Dean blinked. "Not me?" he asked. There was no schedule, or not that he was allowed to know. He was never sure what work he'd be doing from one night to the next, just that it was usually at night.

"You have a guest tonight, Cain. You know what results we expect."

Dean swallowed. Friendly interrogation was not his favorite job, though it was better than hostile interrogation. He wondered who it would be, and whether he had enough of the blue pills.

"For now, take James to meet Crowley and he can start learning the floor. He'll double as a server until he's ready for the stage. Well? Get moving, boys, there's only a couple more hours until we open!"

* * *

Dean was hungry after the hours of dance practice. The kitchen didn't make real food, just wings and nachos and fries - greasy, salty stuff intended to encourage people to drink more. But yesterday someone had brought takeout, and Dean had eaten a whole salad (because he was thinking of Sam, but also because a part of him craved green things that had seen the sun) and half of a huge burrito that had rice and beans and avocado inside as well as meat. The rest of the burrito was in the back of the break room fridge disguised as something much older, so nobody had touched it. Dean munched on that while he watched Ruby showing James around the tables, barking rapidfire instructions that seemed to leave him half-dazed, and generally trying to boss him around without actually getting within arm's reach. Dean wondered what her problem was with the new guy, but apparently she was just creeped out or something. He couldn't see it himself; despite the weirdness when they shook hands, James seemed like a decent guy, if a little stiff.

By the time the club opened, James still seemed confused by what he was doing, but he made up for it by having a remarkable skill for getting through the crowds without dropping anything. It almost seemed to border on psi, although it was no talent Dean had ever heard of - maybe like a projection of the danger-sense that Dean's Dad used to have, so people felt a need to get out of the guy's way? Maybe that was what Ruby was feeling as well. 

Dean just watched in amusement from where he was doing his own work - a little serving, a little working the crowd. Every time he brushed up against someone he pulled something, and tonight it was easier than it ever had been. He still couldn't actually get anything useful like credit card numbers or bank accounts, since few people ever _thought_ their full number, even if they knew it. But he did pick up some useful relationship information, signaled the dancers to focus on some of the richest marks, and even found a guy called Jake who was checking out the club on behalf of Azazel, Alastair's sometimes-business-associate and sometimes-rival. Dean dropped a word to Crowley about that guy, and half an hour later Jake was being half-carried out by bouncers, barely able to keep his feet under him. Even Dean hadn't seen anything extra go into the drink, but Crowley was just that good.

Working the floor was a way for Dean to keep busy and not worry about who his 'guest' was going to be. Of course Lilith couldn't just tell him, since Dean was always supposed to be in the dark about anything they could conceal from him. He'd been here nearly a year before he found out he was in Nevada, somewhere near Vegas but not in the city itself. He could only guess at the date when the club decorations were changed for a few key holidays. It had been ghosts and spiderwebs a few weeks ago, so holly and mistletoe should be showing up in a few more weeks. There was talk of a big New Year's blowout for Y2K, and after that... after that, Dean would turn twenty-one and wouldn't even need a fake ID for serving alcohol. Not that it mattered. Not that there was anything significant about another birthday spent in this hellhole, just marking another year.

He wasn't allowed to know the time or the date or the schedule. He wasn't allowed a space of his own to sleep in or to keep his belongings. He was allowed a choice between working or being tied up in the dark, but he couldn't choose which work. He couldn't choose which guests he was assigned to. Since he hadn't gotten any special instructions, tonight must be one of his regulars. But that wasn't exactly comforting, since some of the regulars made his stomach turn. 

Alastair liked to keep tabs on some of his competitors, and he used Dean to back up his spying. There was Abaddon, who looked hot but always left Dean bruised and bloody, and was so hard to read that he often got a second round of punishment when he had nothing to report. Or Azazel, who had sent the spy tonight; he smiled and talked softly but was always thinking about fires and people screaming as they burned. For Dean, whose mother had died in a fire that the investigators never did decide was arson or accident, those thoughts were almost as bad as being burned himself, and he would have nightmares for days afterward.

Just thinking about the possibilities, Dean's stomach was clenching with nerves so that he wondered if he was going to regret finishing that burrito. The evening was half gone when a deep voice drawled "Hey there" behind him.

Dean turned to see Benny Lafitte eyeing him and breathed a sigh of relief, but he didn't smile since anyone might be watching.

Benny was easily the least offensive of the regulars. Dean had been scared of him at first, his size and his hard hands and his dead stare. He had the eyes of a killer because that's what he was: a former hit-man. It wasn't an easy job to retire from. Some kind of complicated deal with various bosses around town had ended up with Alastair being the one to make sure Benny stayed in line. And Alastair left it up to Dean to tell if Benny was really keeping out of the game.

Dean's opinion of the big guy had gone through a fundamental change when Benny paid a visit just a few days after Alastair had punished Dean for not following through on a hostile interrogation. Dean had gone to hands and knees, knowing Benny could see the welts on his back and butt and the redness of his abused hole. Benny had taken it all in and then fucked Dean between his thighs instead, making sure the camera couldn't catch the details and keeping up a stream of dirty talk that made it sound like he was enjoying causing pain. Dean had wept in relief, and the tearstains just made it look more realistic.

Benny was one of the few customers who knew that Dean wasn't just a party favor but key to Alastair's method of keeping tabs on him. He thought the sex had something to do with a magical contract ritual, though, and he usually just made a short verbal report while they were fucking or whatever. The report almost always matched up with what he was thinking, and Dean had managed to gloss over the few times that it hadn't. 

Dean untied his apron, caught Crowley's eye and got a nod of dismissal, then followed Benny past the stage where Brady was cutting it up with those two chicks whose names Dean could never remember, because they'd been introduced when Alastair was present and it seemed like all the details just fell into a hole and wouldn't come out.

In the back corner, Benny nodded to the doorman. "I got room 10 reserved for the rest of the night."

The doorman looked ceilingward as if he wanted to roll his eyes but didn't dare offend a customer. "Sure, man, just how you like it."

Room 10 was the least popular of the guest rooms, cramped and L-shaped with a bed jammed in where there was no room to maneuver. The camera in that room was pointed at the rack and sex swing instead of the bed, which meant they didn't have to put on a show as long as they were careful what they said.

As soon as they got into the room, Dean turned on some jazzy music and swiveled the speakers to point straight at the hidden pickup mic. Posing in the middle of the room, he trailed a fingertip down Benny's chest, popping buttons as he went. "How about a blowjob?" he suggested in a low voice.

Benny's eyes flicked to the side for a moment, then he grabbed Dean by the collar of his T-shirt. Obligingly, Dean made a pained grimace and went to his knees. Benny dragged him toward the bed, out of range of the camera, and dropped him gently on the satin surface.

Benny sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of his neck, for all the world like a shy teenager. "Thing is, little brother," he murmured, "I got me a girlfriend."

Dean's eyebrows shot up and he smacked the back of his hand against Benny's stomach. "Get outta here."

"No, really. She's gorgeous, and smart."

"So, too good for you?"

"Ain't that the truth."

"She know what you do?"

Benny winced and looked away. "She knows what I _used_ to do. Her family was powerful, once upon a time, and they hired guys like me. But she thinks I'm out of the game completely."

Dean rolled over onto his stomach, frowning at Benny. "You are out completely. That's what this is all about." He waved at the room, and by extension Alastair and the deal among all the bosses to leave Benny alone as long as he stayed retired.

"But she don't know what business I got when I come into town. She don't know I gotta prove myself every two months, or they'll hunt me down. And she sure as shit don't know _how_ I prove myself. She'd call this cheatin'."

Dean shrugged. "She's got a point there."

"And, truth to tell, I don't need it like I used to. Gettin' all the tail I want these days. Not even sure I can get it up after her goodbye kiss got all outta hand."

Dean grinned. "I got some pills if you want," he offered.

"Nah, I don't need that. I'm just not sure what to do so you and me both don't get into trouble."

"Well... we don't have to do anything, if you don't want." Normally the sex made it easier to pull, and that was why Alastair persuaded his customers they really wanted or needed to use Dean. But tonight Dean felt strong and clear-headed, and he was already picking up stray details from Benny. He could almost hear the girlfriend's name, Andrea something-Greek. Maybe he could get away with telling Alastair it was Anne something-complicated.

Benny looked doubtful. "Would that work? Satisfy the contract or whatever?"

"Yeah, I think so." Dean squirmed further up the bad. "Come on, lie here and give me your report, and I'll see if it works."

Benny moved up to lie next to him, his heat and the smell of his aftershave filling the small space as he murmured an account of people who had contacted him over the last two months. In between mentions of electricians and high school classmates, he slipped in descriptions of his quiet mountain cabin, until the talk of garden-planting and hummingbird feeders began to lull Dean to sleep. Benny had 'forced' Dean to sleep with him before, and those were some of the most restful nights Dean had known in years.

At one point, Dean startled awake to find a meaty arm slung over his chest and a stiffie prodding him in the butt. He reached back to caress Benny's hip but got a mumbled "Don't pay it no mind, little brother, it'll go away if we just ignore it."

"Not your brother," Dean grumped, and curled into himself to chase after more sleep. He wasn't anybody's brother anymore; he'd walked out on Sammy during an argument and got what he deserved. And now he didn't have a family, but at least here and now he had Benny.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel left the Hellfire Club at midnight and spent the rest of the night in the not-exactly-stolen Winchester car, parked in the huge lot of a casino across the street. While actively bonded to a charge, Guardian Angels only needed to sleep a few hours every other night or so; with a fresh bond and his charge in danger, Castiel was finding he needed even less. The car was close enough to the club that he could still feel Dean's presence thrumming through him, and he could pretend he would get to Dean quickly if the need arose. In reality he knew there would be too many people in the way, too many doors and obstacles, and his knee jittered occasionally while he monitored Dean's state.

The young man was not what Castiel had expected. When he first saw Dean's confident demeanor and ease in his surroundings, Castiel's heart had sunk. He thought it must have been true, that Dean was there voluntarily. He had only needed one day of reconnaissance to learn that the club was a center of vice and even atrocity, and he felt ill to think that Dean was participating in some of what he had heard.

But then they shook hands, and something changed. Castiel's sense of Dean became clearer and stronger. He could not read his charge's mind as he had half hoped he would, in a reflection of Dean's psi talent. But he could sense Dean's emotion and something of the rhythm of his thoughts, and those were definitely not the ruminations of someone who enjoyed his job or wanted to be where he was. Dean felt pressured and unsafe, and he watched everyone around him with a wary hopelessness that said he expected all of them to hurt him, sooner or later. Despite all of that, he had been helpful and considerate toward 'James' and seemed to be trying to keep him out of trouble with the club's staff.

Castiel could not read minds, but he did seem to have a new talent in addition to the expected gifts for tracking and understanding his charge. If he focused, he found that people would do what he told them to. It only seemed to work on one person at a time, and he suspected it would be a mistake to try to make someone act directly against their own interests. But the talent combined with a careful cover story had been enough to tip one of the club's managers into hiring him, and he'd even managed to reinforce that decision while some of the other employees were watching. It would have been easier if he could manipulate everyone he needed to, but with care he found that it could be a very useful skill.

He was certain now that whatever resolution he came up with must include getting Dean out of this place, but he still needed to find out what to do about the managers and the club itself. Even the town officials were in the grip of the club's management, taking no action to prosecute the crimes occurring here. Castiel didn't know exactly what forms of coercion had been brought to bear on Dean, but there were enough faded scars on his arms and torso to provide some strong clues. There were thin lines from whips or canes, small shiny circles of burns, and tattoos on both wrists to hide that they were permanently discolored from abrasions - ropes or handcuffs, Castiel couldn't be sure under the ink.

Dean's projection of confidence was an act, and Castiel had slowly pieced together the sources of his anxiety. The fake name was one thing, making Dean feel slightly sick every time someone addressed him as 'Cain.' There was a fake padlock on his locker, and he stashed water in every available cranny. He might hoard food as well, but he hadn't eaten anything where Castiel could see, and he was still too raw-boned where a young man of twenty should be starting to fill in with muscle.

Ruby had deliberately tripped Dean while they were dancing, at an angle that could have broken his neck on a chair if he hadn't eeled quickly to the side, and both Ruby and Meg had laughed openly while he sprawled on the floor. Castiel had nearly tripped himself, first lurching to catch Dean, and then holding himself back from exacting revenge on Ruby. Lilith had made no attempt to stop the harassment, and had smiled vindictively when she told Dean to expect a guest that evening. Dean hadn't even asked about the assignation, resigned to whatever would come even as a spike of worry went through him.

That worry had simmered for most of the evening, until nearly 10 pm when Castiel felt a sudden change. Dean felt relieved and, if not safe, at least less immediately endangered than he had been all day. Castiel saw him leaving the main floor of the club with a large man who did not look at all reassuring, but Dean seemed to trust him. By the time Castiel clocked out, Dean was feeling something that approached contentment.

It didn't last; the vague quiet that Castiel interpreted as sleep was broken repeatedly by muddled whirls of emotion, probably from dreams. They were almost never pleasant. Each interruption made Castiel's knee begin jittering again, but he was never certain that there was any real danger, anything that would justify blowing his cover to get to Dean at once. Each time Dean sank back into drowsy quiet, at least for a while, before there would be another spike of anxiety.

When morning came, Castiel pulled out the phone that Sam Winchester had given him, turned it on, and dialed. 

Sam picked up on the first ring. "Is that - you?" he asked, the effort of avoiding a name apparent in his tone. It was not likely that anyone would be listening to their conversation, but the possibility would grow over time. Castiel had encouraged him to use caution.

"Yes."

"Did you find him? He's in - the place where you thought?"

"Yes. I've seen him and spoken to him."

"And?"

"He is definitely under duress, but I don't know the form of it yet."

"Does it matter? Just get him out of there!"

"There may be forms of pressure or retribution which can be applied remotely, after the fact. I have to know what is coming in order to protect him from it."

"Dammit. How long is that going to take?"

"I'm not certain, but I doubt my... cover here will hold for more than a few days. I will have to figure something out soon." Castiel sighed. "What about your end?"

"Um. Dad's still away. I persuaded Jody and Bobby not to tell him what's going on, but he'll figure it out when he gets back. I think that's supposed to be later today."

So John Winchester still didn't know that Castiel was bound to the wrong son. That delay was an unexpected advantage, but it couldn't last. "I may not be able to phone again until tomorrow morning. Or even later."

"Just... do what you can. Keep him safe. I'll try to run interference if I can."

"Understood. Until tomorrow, then." Castiel cut the connection, and turned the phone off both to preserve the battery and to prevent it being traced. He put it back in the car's glove compartment, since he didn't dare take it into the club with him.

Even if Castiel could get Dean out of here cleanly, it was going to take a lot of work to bring the young man back to a normal life where he would feel safe.

* * *

Dean woke up when Benny got dressed, and the big man handed over a little bag from his pocket. It turned out to hold a couple of joints and an unlabeled cassette tape. Dean glanced up in surprise and Benny winked at him before heading out of the room. 

Dean got out too, since the cleaning crew would be getting to work soon. He went up the stairs two more flights, past all the guest rooms, to the business floor. He went to the small office on the end, past the doors to Alastair's outer office and the room Lilith called her 'salon.' The end office didn't have any files or valuables, but sometimes Crowley spread out his paperwork here, or Abaddon or Azazel used it when they were visiting. 

The big desk in the middle of the room had an IBM-compatible computer on it that looked sort of like the one Sammy used to use, and it made Dean's jaw ache to remember his brother's hands flying over a keyboard. But he would need a password to use the thing, and if there was some big-brain way to get around that, Dean had never learned it. Remembering Alastair's reaction the one time he'd tried using the computer to send a message, Dean made a big circle around the main desk and instead headed for the smaller desk in the corner. He pulled the bottom drawer halfway out and snaked his arm in, over and behind to get to one of his stashes. There was an old Walkman he'd taken from the lost and found, with a pair of headphones that had lost the foam from one side.

This office also featured a small window that was one of the few in the building that could be cracked open a few inches. Dean sat on the desk with the headphones on one ear and listened to Benny's mix while he smoked and nibbled on some stale Fig Newtons. The music wasn't exactly to his taste, more blues and less rock in the mix than he would like, but they were classics. Creedence, and Otis, and others that Dean recognized even if he couldn't name them. By the time he stubbed out the joint and hid what was left, Dean was feeling pretty mellow. It was a good morning.

In the afternoon Ruby treated his hair, which Dean hated, and then there was more dance practice. Lilith was close to losing the last of her patience with James. She would be firing the guy pretty soon, Dean guessed. If there was some reason he needed to be on the staff, maybe they'd make him a bouncer or something. He didn't really look intimidating with his lean build, but he must be strong since he didn't even show any effort lifting Ruby or Meg. Dean just hoped there wasn't anything worse than being fired in the cards for James.

Then Lilith announced she wanted James to dance tonight. On stage, in public. 

Dean clenched his jaw shut and didn't say anything. He didn't have to: Ruby objected right away. "He's not ready. He needs more practice."

Lilith waved a hand dismissively. "The angel-demon routine needs more work, of course. Choreography and costumes, whatever. But I have something else in mind for tonight."

"The Ladies' Night crowd will eat him up," said Meg thoughtfully. 

Lilith smirked. "That's what I'm counting on," she said, and explained what she had in mind.

They didn't have time to practice properly, just blocked out the moves a little bit, and then it was time to break and get ready. Dean grabbed James before he could change clothes and dragged him down the stairs.

"What's down here?" James asked, looking around.

Dean waved at the doors in the middle of the basement hallway as they passed. "Laundry room. It's basically like a hotel here - they gotta change all the beds every day. And I don't know if it's the noise or the heat or what, but for whatever reason, this is the least popular bathroom in the entire building." He pushed open the door at the end of the hall to a large tiled room with a couple of big industrial sinks and a toilet and curtained shower at the end.

"Least popular?" James said doubtfully from the doorway. 

"That means no interruptions," Dean interpreted.

"Oh." James still wasn't stepping inside. "What's over there?" He pointed at the steel doors across the hall from the laundry. 

"Oh, uh, that's just a rec room. Well, former rec room," Dean said quickly. "Broken pool table, half a deck of cards, ping pong paddles with no balls. You know the drill." In fact, that was a description of the basement in Grandpa Henry's house. The room across from the laundry was actually Dean's least favorite in the entire building - the interrogation room. "Nothing to see in there. But come on, if you're going to dance tonight you need to shave."

James came into the bathroom doubtfully, rubbing at his chin. "I suppose. But there's no mirror. How am I supposed to -"

"Not your face, dumbass," Dean snapped, and then realized he sounded like Ruby. "Sorry, I mean, uh - not your face. Keep the stubble, women like that. But you gotta do your, uh -" He waved downward.

James glanced down. "My legs, you mean?"

"Uh. Right. Legs." At least that would get him started, Dean figured. "Come on, I got a couple razors from Meg. I need a touch-up too." 

Meg had, of course, taken the chance to remind him smirkingly about what would happen if he used the razors for anything other than shaving. He'd tried that once, in this very room, but Lilith knew. She always knew. The lock on this room wasn't really meant to hold against someone who wanted to get in. Lilith had waited until he was weak but not dying before she sent someone in after him. And then she told Alastair, and let him take care of the rest. That was how it always went, whether Dean tried to use a computer or a phone or tried to climb out a window or whatever. He'd given up on that stuff about a year ago. These days the only escape he tried was inside his own head. He hummed a little Creedence, thinking of Benny's mix tape while he laid out supplies for them both next to the sink.

James took instruction easily on how to do his hairy shins, and he didn't crack any stupid jokes about two men bonding over the shaving of legs. Then he stood still and trusting while Dean cleaned up the scruff on his neck, leaving his jaw and upper lip still outlined. Dean's own peach fuzz was almost too light to be seen, but he let James do his neck in turn, shivering at the scrape of danger across his pulse.

And then came the hard part. "Okay man, drop 'em."

"What?" said James.

"You're going to be on stage tonight."

"Yes."

"You're going to be _stripping_ on stage tonight."

James swallowed. "Yes."

"For a bunch of ladies."

"Yes?"

"They like a clean, uh... profile, if you know what I mean." Dean pulled his own shorts down to demonstrate.

James didn't gape, but his face went sort of slack. "... Oh."

"You don't have to shave completely. That's, uh, I gotta do that for other reasons. But you do need to neaten up a little." Dean clicked on the clipper and let it buzz. "Just pretend you're a poodle, and I'm the groomer."

" _You're_ going to use _that_ , on me?"

"I'm tellin' you, man, it's damn hard to do yourself even if you do have a mirror." Dean grinned at him. "Just trust me."

James's head tilted to one side and he stared as if he was looking right into Dean's soul. Then he nodded. "I do trust you. But will you tell me what you're doing, before you do it?"

"Sure thing." Dean jerked his chin at the sweat pants still pulled up to James' waist. "Come on, now, I showed you mine."

James took a deep breath and pulled down his sweats and underwear in one move.

Dean didn't comment. The bitch about stripping was knowing that everyone was looking, everyone was judging. Even if the judgments were favorable it was still damn creepy. So Dean kept his face neutral as he went to his knees. 

But if he had commented, it would have been favorable, and he wouldn't have to lie. James wasn't hard so Dean couldn't really tell about size, but he was pretty, pink cock and tight brown balls and neat black curls. It was almost a shame to shave that nest away, but Dean was determined to do it right. Make a frame worthy of the picture.

"Gotta touch your balls, okay? Get any stray hairs down around there and in back."

James nodded and leaned back against the sink, spreading his legs a little to allow Dean access.

Dean tried to do it impersonally, holding the balls to one side with the back of his left hand while he wielded the clipper in his right. But pretty soon he had to use his fingers to pull the loose skin tight so he could get in closer. "You're lucky, it won't itch as much if you aren't shaving down to the skin. I'll tell you, it can be a bitch when it starts to grow back in, if you go for the full clean look. This isn't as bad, but you should definitely take a shower when I'm done to make sure you get all the little hairs off there."

"Okay." James sounded a little breathy.

Dean kept his concentration on what he was doing, getting his head right down between James' knees so he could see behind the guy's balls and into his cleft. But of course, from the corner of his eye he couldn't help noticing James was getting hard.

"Sorry," James gasped when he twitched. Sorry about the twitch, or the erection?

"Don't worry about it," Dean said. "Perfectly normal reaction."

He remembered the first time Lilith had done this to him, with three guys holding him down. She shaved him all the way to the skin, with more than a few nicks and cuts, and then Alastair gave him to Abaddon for the night. Abaddon wasn't exactly satisfied so Alastair put him in the closet for three days, and the hair growing back in, prickling against his raw skin, was practically all he could think about. Since then Dean mostly took care of it himself. It wasn't easy, but it was better than Lilith. Sometimes he suffered help and wisecracks from Brady, and once from Meg, but Meg got angry when he didn't want to fuck her afterward so he wasn't doing that again.

"Okay, up top now, just going to trim this down a little." Dean didn't want to do anything to the narrow happy trail leading down from James' navel, but he cleaned up the edge lines and shortened the longer curls a bit. He wanted nothing to distract from what was now revealed as a pretty, and pretty big, cock. Dean touched it easily, gently, to move it out of the way a few times, and James gasped.

Dean paused and moved back, considering his work a moment, then moved in for a touch-up here and a brush of loose hairs there. Then he clicked off the clipper and let it fall to the floor as he leaned in and licked a long stripe up from base to tip.

James whined, and his hand fell on Dean's head, but a moment later he blurted, "No."

Dean shifted back, tipping his head up. "No?"

"Not if you're - I don't want you to feel... You don't have to."

"Okay." Dean leaned in again.

"De - don't you want me to give you a hand? Too? With, um -" James gestured at Dean's groin.

Dean pulled away. He could tell when his attentions weren't wanted. "No, man, I'll take care of it myself. You grab a shower." He waved at the curtain in the corner. 

James frowned. "But you said it's really hard to do it on yourself."

"That's okay, I got plenty of practice." Dean's teeth hurt, and the stiffie he'd been sporting was starting to shrink. He hitched his thigh up onto the sink and reached for the last razor in the pack Meg had provided, running it under hot water.

James was standing there, in a T-shirt and nothing else, just watching.

"Shower, dude, we don't got that long until we need to be upstairs!" Dean snapped.

"Right. I, uh... I'll just..." James grabbed his sweat pants and moved them to the corner, pulled off his T-shirt to throw it on top, then disappeared behind the curtain.

Dean bowed his head, fist clenched around the cheap plastic handle of the razor and teeth biting into his lip. _What an idiot,_ he told himself, _thinking anybody would want you if they weren't forced into it._

Water splattered on the floor, falling in irregular sheets from a bare, wet body that Dean wasn't allowed to touch.

He pulled himself together and started doing some touch-ups with the razor. Carefully, because Lilith and Alastair didn't like their merchandise being damaged. That, after all, was what Dean was, and all he was good for.


End file.
